Rescue-Flare Prayers

"But oh, my heart was flawed
I knew my weakness
So hold my hand
Consign me not to darkness"
 - Broken Crown, by Mumford and Sons



Oftentimes, my prayers are terribly simple. 

"Lord be with them," I pray, picturing specific friends and family members, sending this short request onwards and upwards. God knows better than I do what they need, after all. 

Sometimes these prayers are for lack of knowing the most difficult, weighty things in that person's life. A general covering: "Be with them."

Sometimes it's because the issues are so huge, so all-encompassing, how to even begin? Someone's marriage which is in danger, someone battling a terrible illness, someone struggling with or having rejected their faith, and on and on. The valleys which seem to stretch so wide and so low; how could one possibly make it back up the side of the mountain? It may not even be one obvious thing: day-to-day life has it's own special weariness. I believe that at times this can even be the hardest, because it's tricky to pinpoint, slippery to explain; yes, I do have so many blessings, it's true, but yes, I still feel downtrodden yet I can't say why in so many words.

 I think that one of the bravest things is to admit we're not okay, especially when things look from the outside as though they should be okay. The kind of truth no one expects and which many may not understand is perhaps one of the most vulnerable and real. 

"Father be with them." Or, "Be with me."

I whisper up this prayer. Then I feel guilty, feeling as though it's not enough. I'm thinking this prayer while walking to the grocery store when shouldn't I be on my knees with my Bible open? Yes, and no. Yes, I should be, in the morning and at night and hopefully at other times, but no, don't diminish the prayers woven into the everyday parts of the day, often released like flares in a panic, if I'm honest. These rescue-flare prayers are messy and incomplete, interrupted by life and by my own wandering thoughts. But they are needed, nonetheless. Often they start with a sigh: 

"Oh Lord," I inwardly moan, because I'm tired/hungry/frustrated/impatient/worried. "Please let ..." my prayers often start, usually finishing with some small, self-focused, needy request. For me to not be sick, for someone to be on time, for it to stop raining, for me to just get through a project, and on.

 "Lord I know this is a small thing but please ..."
(let this line move so I can get home soon, let there be understanding in the conversation I'm about to have, protect me from lightning when walking in the rain which is my fear, don't let this device be broken for good, let me not have hurt that person's feelings, etc.)

Maybe God shakes His head a bit at these self-absorbed prayers, yet I believe in my heart that they are better given than not, that God wants me to come to Him with my petty annoyances and acknowledge His presence in the mundane rather than keep silent. I cast out my prayers like a person who doesn't know how to fish yet has faith that I'll catch something anyway. They are wild and clumsy, yet better to stand and try, again and again, rather than give up. 

I stand in line to pay my electric bill, and someone comes to mind.

"Lord be with them ... and with me." Details flit through my head, but the one constant is simply God's presence, known and felt. As a planner and organizer, I long for clear guidance from God, and often pray for it. There was a period of over a year when I prayed for guidance with a painful desperation. I couldn't understand why I was so long in a job I was sure wasn't meant to be forever, aching over a lost love, wanting more than anything to move forward in all ways. Finally, God opened a door, and then another. Yet even through that long season of hurting and waiting and begging, I don't think I ever once doubted God's existence or grace. Still I knew He was there, and even more importantly, that He was with me, always. So through the mountains and valleys, I pray, "Be with them, and please, be with me." There is so much more to those words. I believe that even though I don't say it all, God knows. He knows so much better than I ever could.